Free Hardcastle's Obsession by Graham Ison

houses in Park Lane that had been given over to the care of wounded officers.
    She crossed the room and kissed each of her parents lightly on the cheek. ‘Is my supper in the oven, Ma?’ she asked.
    ‘Sit down, love,’ said Alice, setting down her knife and fork and standing up. ‘I’ll get it for you. You look worn out. Busy day?’ she asked, as she made her way to the kitchen.
    ‘Nine in today,’ said Maud, ‘all Sherwood Foresters’ officers from the Somme. And three of them died before the day was out, one of them while I was holding his hand. He was only twenty.’ Suddenly the cumulative stress of her job overcame her and she burst into tears, weeping uncontrollably.
    Hardcastle was always at a loss when confronted by a sobbing woman, and did the only thing he could think of: he poured his daughter a glass of Scotch. ‘There, love, drink that,’ he said.
    Maud took a tentative sip of the whisky, the unfamiliar fiery spirit catching the back of her throat.
    ‘What on earth are you doing, Ernest Hardcastle?’ exclaimed Alice, returning with her daughter’s supper. ‘Is that whisky you’ve given the girl?’
    ‘If she’s old enough to look after dying officers, Alice,’ said Hardcastle, ‘she’s old enough to have a drop of whisky when she needs it.’ And in an attempt to divert his wife’s criticism, he added, ‘By the way, Marriott sends you his regards.’
    ‘Marriott?’ exclaimed Alice. ‘Doesn’t your poor sergeant have a Christian name?’
    ‘Probably,’ muttered Hardcastle, and lapsed into silence.
    Ten minutes later, Wally arrived, still in his Post Office uniform.
    ‘Hello, Pa, Ma,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You’re home early, Maud,’ he added, glancing at his sister, ‘and drinking the hard stuff, too. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.’
    ‘Oh for peacetime again when everyone came in for meals at the same time,’ complained Alice. Once more, she disappeared to the kitchen, returning seconds later with her son’s supper.
    ‘Five KIAs, two MIAs, and three wounded today, all in this area,’ said Wally as he began to devour his chops. ‘All Sherwood Foresters from the Somme.’
    ‘And what might KIAs and MIAs be, Wally?’ demanded Hardcastle. He knew perfectly well what the abbreviations meant, but tried to discourage the use of such military argot by his son.
    ‘Killed in action, and missing in action, Pa,’ mumbled Wally through the forkful of mashed potato he had put into his mouth.
    ‘Don’t talk with your mouth full, Wally,’ cautioned his mother.
    As was his custom on a Sunday, Hardcastle checked the accuracy of the eight-day clock on the mantelpiece in the sitting room, and wound it. It was a wedding present from Alice’s parents, and had kept good time for the whole of the 23 years it had stood above the fireplace.
    Hardcastle spent Sunday morning reading the News of the World. He was particularly interested in an account of the British Army’s recent capture of Thiepval, a village that the Germans had held since the first day of the Battle of the Somme. Now, however, it had fallen to an attack by eight of the new Mark I tanks that had first been used only eleven days previously at that infamous battle. He walked into the kitchen, took a German flag from the war map, and, with some satisfaction, replaced it with a Union flag.
    ‘We could go for a walk, Ernie,’ suggested Alice after lunch, sensing that her husband was at a loose end.
    ‘I do quite enough walking when I’m at work,’ said Hardcastle grumpily, and began to read a copy of John Bull . But he soon tired of it. ‘Scurrilous rag,’ he muttered, tossing aside Horatio Bottomley’s magazine. He was fretting about his murder enquiry, but knew that there was nothing he could do until the following day. Nevertheless, he regretted wasting time sitting around at home.
    Hardcastle was pleased to get back to work on Monday morning. He examined the crime book, but found nothing of pressing